Wooden Heart
by yellowcottondresses
Summary: All Will has ever done for Layla is take. Maybe it's time to give something back, just this once. Takes place after 2x16, "Guilty Street".


**Author's Note: I started writing this before "We've Got Things To Do" aired, so all of this takes place after 2x16, "Guilty Street". It's sometime in the future if the events of episode 2x17 had never happened (so, no proposal). **

**Lyrics Layla sings are from "Lovely Day" by Bill Withers.**

**_"Since that first breath we'll need grace we're never given/ we'll I've been haunted by standard red devils and white ghosts/ and it's not only when these eyes are closed."_ - Listener, _Wooden Heart_**

**I.**

In the grand scheme of things, Will supposed it didn't matter that Layla just _had_ to come down with a rotten cold the day before Gunnar, Zoey, and Avery had their big show. As it turned out, the venue was twenty-one-and-up only.

Still, even though she wouldn't have been able to go anyway, he still would have been there, because there was no _way _he was missing Gunnar's big night.

Not like it was every day your best friend and his band opened for Little Big Town.

But because it seemed like nothing could ever go as Will planned, the day before the show Layla came down with something nasty, and was so sick she could barely get out of bed. She'd spent all of yesterday tossing and turning in a feverish daze, semi-conscious and sweating, and when Will had asked Zoey what time the band's set started, she'd given him a weird look.

"Umm," she'd said, "isn't Layla a little…under the weather?"

"Well, yeah," he'd said, "But come on! This is y'all's big night! It's a huge deal! You think I'm gonna miss it for anything?"

He'd expected Zoey to be a little more excited, but instead she just stared at him.

"I guess," was all she'd said.

Sometime later that night, as Will slept on the downstairs couch and left Layla upstairs alone, he figured Zoey probably thought it was weird he was so willing to bail on his sick girlfriend.

_Complicated._

What he told Gunnar.

And wasn't it always?

So. He wished them good luck, avoiding Gunnar's eyes just a little, and was now spending the band's big night at home, watching TV beside his congested, feverish girlfriend.

Now they were under the covers watching _SVU_ reruns – which were somehow always on, no matter what time of day it was – and for once, both of them were fully dressed. Will's arm was around Layla's shoulder, her body tucked against his, and she kept accidentally whacking him in the side. Her fever had gone down, but she was shifting restlessly under the sheets as she alternated between kicking the comforter off herself and pulling more closely to his side, trying to get warm.

It was the longest stretch of uninterrupted time he'd spent with her all week. Between his nonstop promotional events for the album and recording all hours of the night, he was barely home, and even when he was here, he didn't see much of her, especially since he'd spent the night sleeping on the downstairs couch.

Which, all things considered, had been a relief.

(He only felt like a little bit of an asshole for thinking that, as he pulled an extra blanket out for himself and kept the TV down so Gunnar and Zoey wouldn't hear it down the hall.)

At least Layla had been too sick to seem disappointed. As he closed his eyes and stared at the living room ceiling, he realized it was the first night in a while he remembered not hearing Layla cry in the bathroom, just barely audible over the cover of rushing sink water, when she thought he was asleep and couldn't hear.

But TV and his own exhaustion could only distract him for so long. He lie awake on the couch, staring up at the darkness, and whenever he closed his eyes the first thing his mind kept replaying was what Layla had told him the other night. No matter how hard he tried to get it out of his head, it was still there, repeating like an overplayed song. It kept him awake until the silver fingers of dawn started crawling across the living room floor.

So this morning, he brought her soup from the deli down the block, and tucked her in under the covers before going to a meeting with the label. She barely touched the soup and was semi-delirious when he pulled the quilt around her shoulders, but she squeezed his hand and smiled through her chattering teeth when he kissed her overheated forehead.

"My hero," she whispered, her voice ragged. She tried to smile at him, but shivered and retreated under the covers instead. "Best boyfriend ever."

He'd tried to smile back. It hadn't occurred to him to ask what kind of soup she liked, so he'd just gotten her tomato. Will figured he could have bought Layla any kind of soup and she would have said she loved it, but this time, for some reason, it had bothered him.

He couldn't even go the deli and pick out his girlfriend's favorite soup. Hell, until he had started looking at the selections, Will realized he didn't even know if Layla LIKED soup.

And a few months ago – even a few weeks ago – that thought never would have crossed his mind.

Now, though –

Maybe he at least owed it to her to stay home, and watch bad reruns. Even tonight.

He focused on the TV. Tried not to think about it too hard.

Layla shifted beside him again, groaning as she kicked off the covers. When she jerked her arm up and elbowed him in the cheek, Will finally peered down at her,

"You know," he said mildly, "I can always get another blanket, if you're cold."

Layla shifted once again, this time knocking knees with him.

"Sorry," she muttered. "Just…my whole body aches. I can't get comfortable."

"You need Advil or something?" He didn't think they had any in the house – or any kind of medicine, come to think of it – but Walgreens wasn't far.

She shook her head. "No. I just –"

But apparently she couldn't find a word for what she was, exactly, so she just rustled back under the covers, sighing as she pulled the comforter up to her chin.

He tried to ignore another elbow to the ribs, and instead turned up the volume on the TV.

"Think I've seen this one already," he murmured.

Layla shifted again.

"They show this one all the time," she said. "It's on, like, every week."

He pointed at the screen with the remote. "Wasn't it the ex-husband who did it?"

"No," Layla said. "It was the boyfriend of her best friend. They were having an affair."

He arched his eyebrow at her.

"Ohhh," he teased, rubbing her arm. "Steamy."

She smiled, or tried to.

He pulled her closer, and she automatically tensed.

Will kept still, not venturing any farther down her body. It was slightly uncomfortable to keep his arm just hovering like that, but he waited it out until he felt Layla relax by degrees, when she realized that his touch wasn't going to lead to anything else. Only when she rested her head on his collarbone did he drop his arm back down her side, and felt her rattled breathing against his own chest.

They hadn't fooled around in days, since right before she got sick. Which he didn't exactly mind. Especially lately; every time they, erm, _tried_, it ended up with him feeling frustrated or Layla crying, and it was hard to tell which was worse.

And then after what she'd told him the other night, he'd been even less willing to give it another try.

At least now he had an excuse not to do anything with her – she'd been sick, he couldn't afford to be, they both needed their rest and weren't going to get it sleeping in the same bed. The logical reasons were right there on the tip of his tongue whenever he needed one; a ready excuse to escape his own bedroom.

The episode ended, fading seamlessly into another. He couldn't remember if he'd seen this one or not, but then figured that they all had that level of sameness to them, and if you'd seen one episode, you'd pretty much seen them all.

From under the covers, Layla peered at the screen.

"You can turn on something else if you want," she mumbled blearily.

"Nah. It's okay." He turned the volume up a little. "Don't think I've seen this one."

"We saw it last week," she said, burrowing in the comforter. "Really. Turn on SportsTalk if you want. I don't care."

He was actually hoping to catch highlights from the Mavericks/Warriors game – he missed it when he was in the studio – but instead set the remote on the bedside table.

"S'fine," he said gruffly.

Layla shook her head. "You're already skipping Gunnar's show because of me."

Will leaned against the baseboard, staring blankly at the screen.

"Yeah," he said finally, "but there'll be others."

He figured by now they'd be just about ready to go on. He'd been hearing the three of them practicing downstairs for days, and they sounded great.

Layla ducked her head into the folds of the blanket.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "You can still go. I know you really want to be there for him."

He almost, _almost,_ made a move to get out of bed. Instead, he pulled Layla closer, biting the inside of his cheek.

"I won't be mad, I swear". She said, and he could hear the tears building in her voice. "Don't let me ruin this for you."

He ran his fingers down her arm, kissing the top of her tangled hair, and begged her silently not to cry.

"Shhhhh," was all he said. "Come on. It's not ruined."

Will leaned down and kissed her forehead. It was still warm, her face flushed, eyes feverish and overbright. There were dark circles under them, though he knew those had been there since before she got sick. Ever since Jeff's phone call, the past few weeks hadn't been easy on Layla.

"All right?" he murmured.

She nodded, clearing her throat.

"Okay," she replied, almost a whisper.

Will sighed, staring up at the ceiling. His eyes followed the trail of lights glimmering overhead, and followed them to the opposite side of the bed, where Layla's barely-touched bowl of deli soup sat on the bedside table.

"You feelin' any better?" he asked her.

She sighed. "A little. Just kinda gross." She made a face. "Why? Do I look it?"

"You just hardly ate anything."

Layla's face fell. The tears that had been in her voice a moment ago seemed ready to come to the surface, and she looked away from him, staring at their hands locked together.

"Sorry," she said quietly.

"Don't need to apologize," he told her, wondering why all he seemed to be able to do for her these days was make her want to cry.

"I can save it for tomorrow," she told him. "No worries."

"You don't have to eat it if you don't want," Will replied.

When Layla didn't answer, he asked, "do you even like tomato soup?"

The look she gave him let him know the answer, even if she wouldn't say it out loud.

"You know," he said, "you could have just told me."

Layla shrugged. "You went out of the way for me. I didn't want to sound ungrateful."

Her fingers spidered across his bare chest. He tried not to shift, and instead made a show out of needing to turn down the volume of the TV.

"Do you even like soup?" he asked.

"I do," Layla replied. "Just – not tomato."

She made it sound like it was some kind of apology.

Will nodded. "Then what kind do you like?"

"I don't know. No one ever asked me before." She batted her eyes at him, though her eyes were red-rimmed and exhausted and lacked their usual sly expression. "Then again, I never had a boyfriend who took care of me when I was sick."

Will tried to smile, thinking that Layla's definition of being taken care of was depressingly low-bar.

"Well," he said, "for future reference, do you have a favorite?"

She sighed, staring at the TV.

"I don't know," she repeated, and this time, she said it a little sadly. "I don't really remember eating much soup. Like, ever."

"What, you never had chicken-and-stars when you were little?"

She stared at him like he was speaking a different language.

"Chicken-and-stars," he said again. "You know? Like, Campbell's soup?"

"My parents were really strict about food when I was growing up," Layla said. She shook her head. "I never even had mac and cheese until I was sixteen."

He gaped at her. "You're kidding."

She shook her head. "They had all sorts of rules for eating. No sugar, no dairy, no snacking between meals, no eating after eight PM…"

"What?"

Layla sighed. "My mom's rule. She said that eating after eight destroyed your metabolism and made you gain weight like crazy."

He kept staring at her, with a lack of anything better to say or do.

Layla kept staring at the TV screen, but Will didn't think she was waiting for him to respond this time. It was like she was lost in her own train of thought, and forgot he was there for a moment.

Until the night after her writing session with Gunnar, that was the most Will had ever heard Layla talk about her parents, or anything about her life before Nashville. She didn't even talk about _American Hitmaker_ that much, or anything that had happened before getting signed with Edgehill. It was almost as nothing had ever existed before she just showed up here, hashtagging her way into his life with a sleek smile, charming everyone around her into thinking she was some sweet little darling.

Will closed his eyes. Tried to think, really think, about all of the things he knew about Layla. Not just that she hated Juliette and tried to get Scarlett thrown off the label, but other things. Things he hadn't bothered to learn about her because he'd never wanted to know, and had never cared enough to find out.

Like –

She cut her hamburgers with a knife and fork, but licked the salt and ketchup smears from French fries off her fingertips. She couldn't fall asleep unless she was piled under the covers, and had never heard a song by Steve Earle. She used shampoo that made her hair smell like rainwater, and he had to admit, he kind of liked the smell. Her eyes changed colors, from brown to green to almost gold, the closer they got to the center.

Sometimes he heard her singing in the shower, while he was just waking up.

"_When I wake up in the morning, love, and the sunlight hurts my eyes…"_

And it wasn't a terrible sound.

"What other stuff do you like?"

Layla peered up at him.

"What other stuff?" she repeated.

"You know," he said, and waved his hand vaguely in the air. "Stuff. Anything. What do you even like?"

"What do you mean?" Layla asked.

Will reached over and grabbed the remote, switching off the television.

"Come on," he said. "What do you like?"

Layla ran her fingers up and down his arm, staring up at the ceiling.

After a long moment, she tilted her face up to his.

"Sushi," she said, her voice serious.

Will couldn't help it; he laughed.

Layla frowned.

"What?" she demanded.

He pulled her closer, touching her hair so she would know he wasn't mocking her.

"Seriously?

She shrugged.

"You asked," she said quietly.

"Yeah, but of all the things in the world?"

She was watching him, still trying to tell if he was serious or not. When he raised his eyebrows and grinned, she smiled, for real this time.

"I really like sushi!" she said, and then laughed.

"Yeah," he said, "but isn't that, like, raw fish?" He made a show out of shuddering in disgust. "Gross."

"Have you ever tried it?" Layla teased.

Will shook his head. "No. Because it's gross."

Layla sidled closer to his side.

"It might be good," she said slowly. "If you gave it a chance."

He made a face. "No, thanks. I'll let you be the adventurous one."

"Oh, right." Layla rolled her eyes. "I forgot, you don't eat anything that isn't breaded and smothered in hot cheese."

"Hey now!" Will tugged at the end of her ponytail. "Come on, that's like, an American staple."

Layla arched one eyebrow, that patented look he hadn't seen in a while. For once, it didn't annoy him or make him want to push her away. It was better than seeing that look in her eye whenever they were under the covers, and he forced himself to touch her body. And definitely better than seeing tears run down her face.

"Whatever you say, cowboy."

She put her head on his shoulder with a sigh.

"I miss really good sushi," Layla said after a moment. "There was this place in L.A. I used to go all the time when I was on _American Hitmaker_." She paused. "Sometimes they used to let me have free food."

"Did you go when you went back?" he asked.

She didn't answer for a long time, and he wondered if she might have fallen asleep.

"Didn't have time," she finally answered.

After a moment, she added, "I doubt they'd even recognize me there, anyway. It's been so long. And it's not like I'm on the show anymore." She sighed. "It's not like I'm anybody special."

He looked down at her, a response ready on his tongue, but something about the look on her face stopped him cold. He could say what he always did – "Come on, you're Layla Grant, and I believe in you" – but it sounded wooden, even in his imagination. And it's not like his words had ever been worth much, anyway.

So instead, he hugged her more closely to him. After a moment, he kissed the top of her tangled hair. It smelled greasy and unwashed, but he pressed his lips to it, anyway.

"So," he said, keeping his voice light. "Slimy, disgusting fish parts." He grinned at her. "What else?

Layla squeezed his hand.

"Peanut butter," she whispered.

"Smooth or crunchy?"

Layla looked up at him like she was trying to read his expression. As if this were the kind of question that had a right answer.

"Smooth." She said it almost like a question.

He smiled down at her.

"I like smooth, too," he told her, and Layla looked relieved.

"Okay," Will said. "Tell me something else. Something not food-related this time."

"Reading," she replied, sounding more assured with this reply. "I miss having the time to do that."

She pulled the covers around her shoulders.

"I love Stephen King," she said. "_The Shining. Pet Sematary. Children of the Corn._"

"Think I saw _The Shining _once," he said. "The hotel movie? Kinda fucked up?"

He could feel her grinning into his collarbone.

"Book's better," she said.

He smiled. "I'll take your word for it."

"All his stuff is pretty fucked up, though," Layla said. "I think that's why I like it."

He raised his eyebrows at her. "Why?"

She stared at their fingers, laced together.

"He was allowed to be fucked up and crazy," she said softly. "Allowed to just…go there. To that place, or whatever. And write about it. All the darkness inside people you don't want to pretend is there. And instead of just trying to hide that, he shows every bit of it. Even if it makes people do really awful things, you feel like they're not bad people. Not really."

She propped herself up on one elbow.

"You know, I once had a pageant judge ask me who my biggest influence was," she said.

He didn't really see where this was going. "And what'd you say?"

Layla sighed. "I didn't know what to say. That was, like, the ONE question I didn't already have an answer for. So I said Martin Luther King because I couldn't think of anyone else on the spot. I didn't even place that time."

She took her hand out of his, and with the tips of her fingers drew circles around the space where he figured his heart ought to be.

"I remember," she said quietly, "my mom was so mad. She made me do all this research, write a full paper. Footnotes and everything. That way I wouldn't blank out next time." She shook her head. "I never had another judge ask me that, ever again."

"Who'd you end up writing about?"

She was still drawing circles on his chest with one red-painted fingernail. "Hmm?"

"The paper. Who'd you end up writin' it on?"

Layla blinked.

"I don't know," she said. "I can't remember."

He kept his arm around her.

"What about you?" she asked.

The smile froze on his face. "What about me?"

Layla looked up at him. "I don't know much about you except that you play guitar and always get extra pepperoni on your pizza."

Will tried to make himself smile, the look that got him anything he wanted.

"That about covers it," he said.

But Layla was shaking her head.

"No," she said, putting her hand on his chest and tapping it weakly. "No! Come on, I did my whole 'sharing and caring'; it's your turn."

He closed his eyes and ran a hand over his face.

"Depends," he said, after a moment. "What do you want to know?"

"I'm not talking about deep dark secrets," Layla said drily, and his stomach flipped a little. "Not now. We'll start small."

He peered at her through the slats of his fingers. "How small we talkin'?"

"Like…" Layla shrugged. "How about your middle name."

He pretended to look offended. "Okay, now you're crossin' a line."

When Layla rolled her eyes, Will sighed.

"Aaron," he said, after a moment. "What's yours?"

"Uh-uh," Layla said, shaking her head. "Still your turn. Favorite food."

"Pizza. Pepperoni. You know that."

"Hot or cold weather?"

"Hot. I hate snow."

"Coke or Pepsi?"

He looked down at her and mimicked her one-eyebrow smirk. "Dr. Pepper."

She made a face. "What's your favorite color?"

"Green."

"What shade?"

He stared at her. "I dunno. Green is green."

"Like," she replied, "minty green, or hunter green?"

Will blinked.

"Minty?" he echoed.

Layla shook her head.

"Hold on," she said, crawling out of bed with the sheets still wrapped around herself. "I have a picture on my phone."

She pulled her phone out of her purse, flipping through her photos as she climbed back under the covers beside him.

"My room's painted mint green at home," she said, and handed him the small, glowing screen. "See the walls? That color."

Will took the phone from her hand, staring at the photo. He was way less focused on the color of the walls than he was on the girl in the picture.

It was Layla, but a different version than the one he knew. She was younger, probably still in high school, her hair longer and streaked with dark red. She was sitting on top of a bed with dark purple sheets, her arm thrown around a little boy with spiked hair and a smile so like Layla's that Will thought the two of them just HAD to be related.

He looked at her, then back at the girl in the photos, with the long hair and a wide smile and her arms around that little boy. He knew it was the same person in theory, but it was hard to actually get his head around that idea.

"It's still green," was all he said, when he handed the phone back to her.

Layla smirked. "Shut up."

She reached over to put her phone on the nightstand, when Will's curiosity got the better of him.

"Who's the boy in the picture?" he asked.

Layla arched her eyebrow at him. "Why? Jealous?"

When he rolled his eyes, she said, "that's my brother, Benji."

"I didn't know you had a brother," he said, and of course he didn't, he'd never asked. It had never mattered.

"He's seven," Layla said. "I have another one, too. Miles. He's sixteen."

He nodded, running over the names in his head.

"So" Will said. "Benji, Miles, and Layla."

"Yep," she nodded. "What about you? Any brothers?"

He clenched his jaw. "No."

He didn't offer any more information, and she didn't ask. He reached over and grabbed the remote, about to switch it back on, when he paused with his hand in mid-air.

After a moment, he set it back down.

"I have a sister," he said, after a long pause.

Every word weighed on his tongue, fighting coming loose. He gritted his teeth, wishing the words back as soon as he let them loose.

Layla looked up at him, surprised. He never talked about his family, and after a few monosyllabic responses, she'd more or less given up asking him questions about that particular subject (though certainly not for lack of trying).

"What's her name?" Layla asked.

Will stared at the ceiling for a moment.

"Lindsey," he finally replied. "She – she's younger."

He held his breath, waiting for what Layla might say next, but she just sighed.

"I miss my brothers," she murmured, and Will let out a breath. "I missed Benji's birthday when we were on Juliette's tour. Totally cried when he got off the phone with me."

She nestled closer to him, and he ran his fingers gently down her arm.

"You guys sound close," he said.

"We aren't, really," Layla said. "We're just so far apart in age that we never fought like me and Miles did." She sighed. "Were you and your sister close?"

It was a long moment before he answered.

"No." There was a small smile threatening to spread across his face when he looked down at Layla. "We fought all the time."

"I bet she's really proud of you now, though," Layla said, grinning. "Mr. Most-Requested Single. She probably became Miss Popular overnight."

He tried to smile back.

"Bet your brothers are proud of you, too," he said.

When she didn't answer, Will looked down and saw the expression on her face.

"Can't imagine for how much longer," she whispered.

"Come on," he said gruffly. "Stop that."

Layla sat up on her knees, pulling his arm off of her.

"You heard Jeff," she said, and her voice wobbled as he saw her eyes fill up with tears. "He's one chart space away from kicking me off the label." Layla sniffed, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "And then I'm just that girl who was a runner up on some TV show. Not even a winner."

"Hey." He reached out one hand, brushing the hair out of her face. "You need to stop tellin' yourself that."

"Why not?" she said, her voice still shaking. "It's true. I'm screwing everything up now. I'm failing everybody who thought I'd be something, and instead I'm just – "

"You're _not," _Will said, with more force than he meant to. It worked though, because Layla took a breath and looked up at him, tears slipping down her face.

"You're not failing," he said, more gently this time, and pulled her back into his arms.

"This thing'll turn around," he murmured into her ear. "You'll be back where you were before you know it."

She hung onto him, curling more tightly into his arms.

"I don't think so," she whispered.

He didn't know what to say to that. Just kept holding onto her, one hand running down her back.

"Shhhh," he managed. "Don't talk like that."

She reached up, slipping her arms around his neck. Then her lips were on his, still dry and cracked from fever.

He returned her kiss, in motion if not enthusiasm, and her hands held tightly to him like she'd disappear otherwise. He gripped the back of her t-shirt, the fabric bunched between his fingers, and when their mouths tilted together once more he could feel the fevered heat radiating off her skin, the ragged damp in her breathing.

This wasn't the Layla Grant he was used to. The one who sabotaged Scarlett on the red carpet and had some sort of personal vendetta against Juliette; who sucked up to Jeff and always acted like she had everything under control; who had everyone eating out of the palm of her hand. The act stopped as soon as she slipped under his covers, under his hands, and even when the lights stayed off she couldn't seem to act like that Layla Grant anymore.

Will figured he understood, at least a little. After all, there weren't a lot of times he felt like the Will Lexington she expected him to be, not anymore.

This Layla was someone else. Someone who didn't like tomato soup; may or may not have liked her peanut butter smooth, because she wanted to give him the right answer to such a simple question. Someone who had brothers she'd left behind and a green-painted bedroom he'd never see; who hogged the covers and liked to fall asleep with his arms around her, which he allowed, most nights. A Layla who wanted everything from him but accepted practically nothing in return, even after she'd given him everything she'd already had.

Maybe he should have felt guiltier about that last part. For what she'd given him, and what he'd given her – or rather, hadn't – in return. That her first time ever had been in a damp hotel room in Houston, and he hadn't been careful, or slow, or even concerned about her at all; that when he was done with her, there were dark, spreading bruises on her hips and thighs, and he'd never once asked her if he was hurting her even though he probably was, but she'd stayed quiet and let him fuck her on top of scratchy hotel sheets; that after he tore off her robe and got inside her without ceremony, all he could think about was the blood on his hands, those two guys who threatened Brent, and the way they'd cowered under Will's fists; that every time he thought of Brent silently begged him for help from across the room it made him angrier, and he took all of that out on her. Because she was there, and she let him, and he wanted to.

Then again, he'd never considered himself a better-sort of person, anyway. Or even a particularly good one. He'd never considered himself much of anything, really.

And really, was there ever much of a choice?

Will shifted, with Layla in his arms. All he'd ever done, since that night in Houston, was take from her. Maybe for once, he ought to give something back. Even if it was just for a few moments.

Maybe just once, he could make her feel something else. Something besides pain or frustration or blame.

Or hopefully just stop crying.

Will leaned back down on the mattress, tipping Layla's body down with his own. When she was laid out on the covers, he kept one hand around her back and kissed across her collarbone. He made his way to her shoulders, her neck, and eventually her lips.

She was tense underneath him; he could tell. Her whole body was a livewire under his hands, and when she kissed it was trying to measure his own intensity – or rather, lack thereof. He was almost on top of her, his hands tracing her bare sides.

"Wait," she yelped, reaching out to grab his hand. "I don't think –"

He pushed the hair out of her eyes. "What?"

"It's just," Layla said, her voice sounding meek, "since I'm still…it probably won't be any good…"

He pulled back, leaning over her. With one hand, he stroked her damp, feverish cheek.

"Don't worry," he murmured. "This time, I'll do all the work. Okay?"

Layla nodded. She had her arms wrapped around herself, and he thought it was the loneliest thing he'd ever seen.

"Okay," she whispered, her voice scratchy.

He moved his hands away, and she lay still on the mattress, tilting her head back up towards the ceiling and closing her eyes. The last of her tears slipped down her cheeks, and she took a deep breath, keeping her eyes shut tight.

Will held still, waiting until she was breathing something like normal before letting his hand move down any further. Slowly, he slipped under the elastic band of the stretchy pants she was wearing, and waited another beat before pulling them down her legs. She slid out of them, and when she was in just her underwear he walked his hands back up her bare skin until he was at the curve of her stomach. He could tell she was holding her breath. He leaned down, kissing the arch of her hip bones, and slid her underwear down her legs.

He waited again before slowly moving his hands, down her waist, on the inside of her legs. They shook slightly as she spread them open, and he moved his fingers further up the inside of her thighs. He tried to catch a glimpse of her face, but her eyes were squeezed shut tight, hands gripping the sheets with white knuckles. He couldn't tell if it was because it felt good to have hands on her body, or because she was afraid and expecting pain.

Will closed his eyes, making himself take a breath. God, what was he even doing? Layla was obviously too stressed out about making HIM happy to enjoy this, and he already knew he wasn't going to. It would just end up being another failure for the both of them, and he couldn't handle waking up to her tears in the bathroom again.

The best thing he could do for her right now was just let this go. Write it off and curl back under the sheets with her, hold her until she stopped shaking, reassure her that it was really okay, he was okay, everything was okay, they were fine. Then they'd watch another bad rerun, and he'd wait for her to fall asleep before taking care of himself in the shower.

Will looked down at Layla on his sheets. His gaze was clinical, observant. He never paid attention to her body before, and whenever they had sex, it was always with the lights off. Even when she got in and out of bed, Layla was self-conscious – crossing her arms over her breasts, crossing her legs, keeping herself wrapped in the sheets when she went to pick her clothes up off the floor. This was the closest he ever looked at her, or the closest he remembered ever wanting to look.

And she was so _small._

That was what struck him the most; he knew Layla was barely at his shoulders, but seeing her lying on the bed like that, she looked even smaller, especially when she was shaking and biting her lip. Even under his hand, she felt like glass, her hip bones jutting out underneath skin so pale that he could see the red pattern of flush spreading across her bare body, the imprint of his large hand on her naked waist.

He looked at her, strangely empty of emotion, and reached up to touch her forehead with his calloused fingers.

"Shhhh," he said. "It's okay, it's okay. It's all right."

Layla was chewing on her lower lip.

"No," she said.

He froze. An "I'm sorry" was on his lips, but didn't come out.

"No," Layla said again, and this time, she opened her eyes.

She reached a hand out, and Will thought it was to push his own touch away. But instead, she gripped his wrist – her grip was surprisingly strong – and moved it closer to between her legs.

"Keep going," she hissed through her teeth.

He stared down at her. "You sure?"

She nodded. He could see the stress falling away from her face by degrees, and she tilted her head back, her body arching slightly off the mattress. The usual expression on her face whenever they got under the sheets – equal parts frustration and worry and fear – was gone, replaced by nothing but wanting.

Will took a deep breath. He leaned towards her, pressing a barely-there kiss to her forehead. Then he closed his eyes, and slid his fingers inside her, working slowly over her clit. When she started to moan he took another slow, steady breath, and made himself keep going.

**II.**

Layla wasn't crying anymore.

She wasn't talking, either, just lying at his side with one arm draped over his waist. She was silent, but he could feel the smile on her face, just like he could feel the way she was finally, for the first time in days, relaxed to be undressed in his bed.

"How was that?" he said.

She didn't answer at first.

"Good," she said.

Then she added, "It was…it was better than good. It was…"

"Good," Will answered for her, and she laughed. "That's now it's supposed to feel, by the way."

Just like that, her entire smile fell away. She pulled away slightly, tugging the covers over her body.

"Sorry it hasn't been," she murmured.

He stared up at the ceiling, feeling very tired.

"S'not your fault," he said, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

"I just –" Layla started, her voice soft. "I didn't want you to think I was some stupid little girl. Like everyone else does."

"Nobody thinks that," he intoned automatically.

Layla propped herself up on one elbow. "Jeff does," she said.

"Yeah, well," he sighed. "Jeff's kind of an ass, in case you haven't noticed."

She smirked. "I have."

Then she curled back against him.

"You know," Will said, trying to sound casual, "if you ever...don't want you, you can tell me. Anytime. I won't get mad, I promise. And I won't make you do something you don't wanna do."

He looked down at her. "If you don't want me to touch you, I won't."

"I want to," Layla protested, sitting up. "Look, I'm sorry if I made things weird the other night, I didn't mean to, I just thought that, most guys, they would just freak out. I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner."

Will sighed.

"It's not about that," he said. "Okay?"

When she still looked doubtful, he had to look away.

"Not sure it would have made much of a difference, anyway," he muttered, and figured that was the most honest thing he'd ever said to Layla, since this whole hashtag business began.

"I just didn't want you to think I was some super clingy insane girl," Layla said. "I was afraid you wouldn't want to waste your time on me. Like you'd have more…fun with somebody else."

She looked up at him through the sweaty fringe of her bangs.

"I thought if you knew who I really was," she said softly, "you'd never like me."

Will's hand stilled in her hair.

"Come here," he said, his voice rough.

Her skin was still buzzing, still too warm and flushed. He wanted to push her away, if only because she felt like cuddling a space heater, but he just reached over to the edge of the table, picking up her cup of tomato soup.

"You mind if I finish this?" he asked.

She grinned at him. "So, you like tomato soup?"

He shrugged. "Well, it's no chicken-and-stars."

"Or macaroni and cheese," Layla said. "Which, by the way, you could bring me anytime. You know, even when I'm NOT sick."

He stirred the now-cold soup. The edges had congealed against the edge of the Styrofoam, staining it with a dark ring of tomato residue.

"How about chili?" he asked.

"What?"

"Chili," he said again. "It's, like, the one thing I can actually cook."

"Really?" Layla sat up. "I've never had chili before."

"Seriously? Did your parents have rules about it?"

"No." She shook her head. "They just didn't like anything ethnic."

He watched her for a moment, trying to decide if she was joking. He decided it could go either way.

"So," Layla said, "you really know how to cook?"

"No," he said quickly. "I told you, I just know how to make one thing."

"And you'll let me try it?"

She looked up at him, hopeful. It seemed endlessly cruel to keep letting her have that look on her face; more cruel than bruising her body under his on scratchy sheets, or leaving her to cry on the cold bathroom floor. Unlike her, he felt too cold now, and he reached over to grab the quilt that had slipped off the edge of the bed.

"Yeah," he said slowly, pulling the covers over himself. He let his fingers run down her arm, and he stared up at the ceiling, closing his eyes. "I might."

Layla smiled up at him, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. She put her sweaty palm over his heart, and his throat closed up when she went back to tracing the skin with her fingertip.

It felt like she was splitting him open. Exposing him, right down to the bone.

"Will?"

He took a deep breath. "Yeah?"

"My middle name? It's Nicole."


End file.
